


Blest Are The Dead

by tmelange



Series: The Agony & the Ecstacy [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Plot-Intensive, Vampirism, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Angel is on a demon hunting road trip in Seacouver, he stumbles across a different type of Immortal. This Immortal is Methos, and to Angel, he is irresistible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 1998, and was my first piece of fanfiction. Consequently, it suffers from...well, it is what it is.
> 
> This story was also written as a response to a challenge on a yahoogroup called anyone_but_mac, which means that Methos had to be paired with someone other than the norm. Some Mac angst, which can be perceived as a bit of bashing, was a necessary by-product. **If you are a rabid Duncan/Methos fan, Or Duncan fan, this is not the story for you.**
> 
> This AU was written in the middle of season two of Angel: TS. In this story, Angel is still in possession of the Gem of Amarra—the ring that grants a vampire eternal protection and allows him to walk in the sun unscathed.

The blest are the dead,  
Who see not the sight  
Of their own desolation–  
This work of a night–  
This wreck of a realm–this deed of my doing–  
For ages I’ve done, and shall still be renewing!

 _Manfred: Act II,_ Byron

+

It was raining. Rats scurried here and there along the waterfront, sampling a bit of this, a morsel of that, seeking–as were many that night in Seacouver–some small relief from the cold and the wet and the overpowering sense of expectancy that seemed to hang in the air, blurring the edges of everything tangible. Angel, the vampire, demon slayer extraordinaire, skulked in the shadows. He was uncomfortable, tired and more miserable than he could remember being in a very long time. Really, he just wanted to get out of the rain and back to his hotel. It certainly did not help that the night licked his senses like a favorite dog does the back of a hand, whispering illicit propositions, tempting his dark nature. Angel willfully declined the temptation, keeping a close reign on the demon within. The night's favor was too fickle, he had learned the hard way over many years. But it was ever this way for him–every night a travail, a test of his determination to remain sane, to remember the humanity he had lost two hundred and forty seven years ago. Redemption, that elusive ideal, seemed to him to require payment meted out daily.

It was raining, and Angel’s hair was wet. Water ran the length of his neck, soaking his collar, sending chills down his spine. _Definitely time to get out of here,_ he thought. He started towards the street and away from the docks, passing rows of desolate buildings standing sentinel to the days when such massive structures were an integral part of a commercial system that used to thrive in Seacouver.

The wind swirled as Angel walked slowly towards his car, bringing with it the tangy smell of . . . _blood._ Angel froze and melted into the shadows, sniffing the wind like a wolf on hunt. Suddenly, he heard the clang of metal echoing faintly through the abandoned alley on his left. If not for his heightened senses, he might never have noticed it. He sniffed the air again, trying to locate the origin of the sound, the scent–the sweet scent of blood.

Angel ghosted quickly to the abandoned warehouse at the end of the left alley as the sounds got louder, the scent stronger. He heard harsh shouting and then eerie silence. The _clang, clang, clang_ of metal resumed as Angel jumped up on an awning that was too high for mortals to reach without assistance but well within the abilities of a vampire. He let himself into the building through the broken window on the second floor and found himself on a railed loft level that ran the perimeter of the interior. He could see everything that was happening on the first floor from his position. _Perfect._

He crouched by the railway and looked down at the main floor, on a scene of such confusion that, at first, he could only gawk in surprise. There were men down there. Men fighting with swords! Not, as he initially assumed, in practice or in jest but in all seriousness. There was blood everywhere, and the strong, heady scent made Angel shudder as he struggled to restrain his inner demon, to refrain from swooping down out of the night and feeding on those silly mortals intent on throwing away their existence–feeding irredeemably on the elixir of life.

Angel observed the scene carefully. One man lay dead–he was off to the side with a dagger through his heart–but what caught and held Angel's attention was the man in black. The man stood at the center of the floor holding a broadsword. He was covered in blood and wounded in a hundred places, but Angel could still see the fire of rage burning in his eyes. Taking the whole scene in, Angel was stunned that the man in black was still standing. Three more men, clearly in cahoots with one another, circled him like starving wolves would a bleeding lamb, but the lamb, Angel noted quickly, seemed to have some fight in him yet.

Angel looked, really looked, at the man in black and froze in shock. The man was beautiful. Even covered in blood, wounded near to death and beset on all sides, he was beautiful. Fierce as a hawk as it takes to the sky, fierce as a panther before the kill. _Beautiful as the night._

The man looked tall, but Angel could not tell for sure. His hair was short and black and was pasted to his head with blood and sweat. His skin was like alabaster, and his neck was long and as inviting to a vampire as water to a man dying from thirst under a desert sun. He wore black jeans and a torn black T-shirt. The man's exposed skin showed through the tattered garment like pure white light, glowing beautifully.

But it was the man's eyes that called to Angel’s soul–green and gold, flecked with fire and flashing in anger. The man looked up at the rafters suddenly, directing his fierce gaze upward as if aware that he was being watched. _Remarkable!_ Angel knew that the wounded man did not see him, could not see him in his concealment unless Angel wished to be seen, but the man's gaze seemed to spear him, sear his soul, shatter his heart. Angel froze in shock as a memory assaulted him. The man in black looked . . . _familiar._ Angel shook his head distractedly, trying to access the memories of a time long ago–a time, perhaps, when he was still human.

Angel’s heart constricted as he watched the three attackers circle the lone man in black, clearly moving in for the kill. Bile settled like a stone in Angel's stomach at the thought that the man who had so effectively captured his attention, the man who seemed so strangely familiar, would die soon. Death would touch him before Angel could figure out why he reminded him of something in his past. Death would reach out and claim such a singular beauty despite Angel's wish to the contrary. Death, as always, rode the night on a pale horse, mocking him.

What could Angel do? What should he do? This altercation did not concern him. He did not know what was going on, who was in the right and who was in the wrong, but the man in black was outnumbered. There was no way the man could prevail. Without assistance he would surely die. Should Angel interfere?

"Methos, give it up. You’ll never get out of here alive," Angel heard one of the men say to the lion masquerading as a lamb. _Methos,_ Angel thought as he mouthed the unfamiliar word. _His name is Methos._ Angel watched as Methos grinned ferociously. Oddly, Angel noticed there seemed to be no fear in the man even though three swords were pointed at his heart. Angel eased over to the railing, preparing to take action.

"Is that your expert opinion?" Methos answered dryly. "Let me let you in on a little secret. I’ve been killing people for more years than you can comprehend. Killing is an art form and I am the master. I am Death. I am your death as I was death to your friend in the corner." His voice, theatrical, beautiful in pitch and timber, rose and crested.

"Give up? You think to take my head CHILD?" he spat. "Not in this life." Then he lunged.

 _Take his head? Do they want to cut off his head?_ Angel wondered in amazement. _What the hell is going on?_

They attacked in a pack, swarming around Methos, looking for purchase. The scene contracted as they converged and then expanded as Methos burst from the group slashing, jumping, kicking, twirling like an assassin or an avenging angel bent on destruction. Methos screamed–a sound Angel could only describe as a blood-curdling war cry in some language he could not identify, if it was even a language at all. Methos seemed in the throes of a berserker rage. Angel recognized the condition. The man was blood-crazed and very likely insane. He was covered in blood and some sort of amazing light that seemed to heal his wounds as afflicted. This activity mesmerized Angel, froze him in place, flushed and astonished. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all of his life. The man brought to mind hell in all its fury–and Angel would know.

 _He doesn't need my help._

Angel watched avidly as the first attacker fell, hamstrung. Methos switched his sword from his right to his left hand, bent and picked up his opponent’s weapon. He speared the man through the chest with that sword, pinning him to the floor with a resounding impact and a wail of pain. The sickening crunch of bone and the _schtick_ of the blade as it pierced flesh were loud in the sudden silence. The man died in a gurgle of blood, and his compatriots retreated briefly for the re-gathering. There was now one man dead staked to the floor and another dead with a dagger through his heart. Rack up two for Methos. Angel grinned.

"Still think I should give up?" Methos gritted out through clenched teeth. He circled the two remaining men. The hunters had become the hunted.

The two men glanced at each another. Angel felt sure they had not failed to notice the maniacal edge to Methos’ voice, the glazed look in his eyes. They seemed to come to a silent decision.

"Methos, you know you can’t take our heads," the one on the left snarled. "Even you could not recover from the quickening before the other could take you. The best you could do is incapacitate us like you did those idiots." He gestured contemptuously towards the two dead guys. "But I’m telling you, make one more move towards us and Joi will separate your pet MacLeod from his pretty head. She may be a mortal, but she knows exactly what to do with that sword." He motioned to the left with his hand. "Put your sword down and maybe we let MacLeod go . . . after we have some fun with him." He leered.

Angel was startled. Besides the fact that he did not have a clue what these men were talking about– _What the hell is a quickening?_ –he had been watching Methos so intently, he had not even noticed the girl. She was standing on the other side of the warehouse next to a man– _MacLeod?_ –who was trussed like a chicken and lying prostrate on the floor. The man’s head was bent to his chest–he looked dead–and his hair, which was long and brown, obscured his face.

Angel noticed that the mention of his name seemed to revive the man called MacLeod. He looked up slowly and groaned, taking in the scene. His eyes widened as he registered the blood and carnage everywhere. His gaze came to rest on Methos, and he seemed to immediately understand the precarious situation.

"Methos!" MacLeod yelled out, struggling furiously to free his hands. "No! It’s me you want, leave him alone!"

Methos looked at this "MacLeod," the man begging for his life, and not a flicker of recognition crossed his face. MacLeod was agitated, frantically trying to free himself from the ropes that bound him wrists to ankles. MacLeod glanced to his right and saw the girl, Joi, standing by him holding what Angel guessed to be his own sword poised for a killing stroke. The sword was a Japanese katana, Angel noticed with appreciation–a real beauty.

MacLeod seemed about to speak to the girl when Methos broke into action like a whirlwind let loose in an enclosed area. Angel saw him swipe the legs out from under the two men with a leg. They fell into each other, screaming obscenities and scrambling frantically, trying to get to their feet and at Methos. Angel guessed they were expecting Methos to attack them but instead he rolled, leapt to his feet and rushed across the room toward MacLeod. The girl–Joi–stood frozen like a deer drinking from a brook at the first sight of the hunter. She had no chance.

She dropped MacLeod’s sword and started to turn away. Methos was upon her quickly, killed her abruptly. He ran his sword right through her body without pause or mercy. As her slight frame crumpled to the floor, he kicked her body off his sword and wiped the blood on her coat. He bent, picked the katana up off the floor and turned towards the last two men.

Angel was fascinated by the fury, the enraged control, the shocking ability to think and plan in the middle of chaos. Methos had moves to rival a Slayer and he was a real Hellmouth on wheels with that sword. Angel looked at MacLeod, trying to fathom his expression. MacLeod was staring at Methos in open-mouthed shock. He was wheezing, struggling for breath. He seemed to want to say something but couldn't draw enough air to form the words. Finally, he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Methos never noticed. He was moving across the floor toward the two men, a panther scenting his prey.

Of course, they tried to run, Angel noted with grim satisfaction, and Methos, with a blade in each hand, cut the first down as a scythe does wheat. He left him pinned to the floor, sword through his heart, a grisly parody of the other likewise-pinned assailant. Intently, he turned towards the last.

The two of them fought, one-on-one. Flickering flames coursed over cuts, healing wounded skin. Really, it was no contest. Methos ran the katana through and across the other man’s stomach and retreated as the man fell to his knees clutching at his innards as they slowly leaked onto the floor. Methos brought his arm up and swung, cleanly severing the man’s head.

 _"What the...?"_ Angel involuntarily exclaimed as light slowly rose from the headless body and converged, slamming into Methos, holding him up like a sacrifice and then slamming him to the ground. Light and energy pounded into him and reeked havoc with Methos and with the warehouse. Glass shattered and wood went flying. Chaos reigned. Angel hunkered down, waiting for the eye of the storm, trying to watch Methos and what would happen next. Clearly, what was happening was way beyond normal.

Finally, the forces subsided. Methos, staggering, got up and made his way to the first man staked to the ground. He pulled the sword free and set it aside. The man, seemingly dead a short time ago, all of a sudden breathed again. Angel inhaled sharply, but the man's renewed life was short lived as Methos, with one quick slash of the katana, quickly separated the unfortunate one’s head from his body.

Then another storm, another light show, another convergence of energy again and again as Methos decapitated the other two men. He was raised up and brought low in rapid succession, the clothes burned off his body. Angel raised his head and looked down at the aftermath. Destruction, blood and carnage and two men left alive, one tied up awkwardly and the other lying prostrate, naked in the middle of the floor in a pool of blood, his alabaster skin glowing through the mire, beautiful as a newborn.


	2. Chapter 2

Nor dread nor hope attend  
A dying animal;  
A man awaits his end  
Dreading and hoping all;  
Many times he died,  
Many times rose again.  
A great man in his pride  
Confronting murderous men  
Casts derision upon  
Supersession of breath;  
He knows death to the bone—  
Man has created death.

 _Death,_ W. B. Yeats

+

Angel was conflicted, caught between revealing himself and continuing his observation unnoticed. Only minutes had passed since he had hidden himself in the loft but time had moved so sluggishly, seeming like an eternity. So much had happened! Bodies littered the floor of the warehouse, blood was everywhere, and the strangest part of all was that Angel had watched it happen and hadn't done a thing—hadn't even had time to decide what was the right thing to do. He felt as if he had just awakened from a dream, seared by the light of the risen sun and torn asunder. He was still debating his course of action when the choice was abruptly taken from him.

A man entered the warehouse. He was an older man with peppery gray hair and a cane. He made his way cautiously, steps oddly stilted, across the bloody floor. The man looked around in dismay and grief. His steps faltered.

Then Methos groaned, and Angel’s eyes snapped back, involuntarily, to the man that had so captured his attention.

"Methos!" the intruder blurted as he quickly made his way over to him.

"Joe," Methos responded slowly, struggling to get up off the ground.

"Here. Let me help you, buddy."

"Joe, my coat. My coat is somewhere over there," Methos said, gesturing to his right tiredly. "Can you get it for me? I don’t relish traipsing around in my birthday suit."

"You don’t?" Joe smirked. "I thought fossils like you liked being on display. They even have special places called museums where you can display yourself to your heart’s content. I hear people will even pay money...."

"Hah. Hah. Very funny. Did you ever notice how some people always show up after all the hard work is done then stand around trying to make pithy remarks?" Methos said with acerbity.

"I learned from the best, bud," Joe said over his shoulder as he made his way toward the coat.

"And while you’re over there, can you untie MacLeod?" Methos called out tiredly. "He has a dagger in his back and he’s been reviving off and on for the last half hour. You’ll have to remove it."

"Sure, buddy." Joe looked around and spotted MacLeod's dead body on the floor. "Hey, get yourself together," he told Methos briskly as he handed him his coat. "We have to get out of here. I can only hold off the Watchers for so long."

 _Watchers?_ Angel thought to himself in surprise. His interest peaked sharply. He watched Joe hurry over to MacLeod for a moment, but his attention quickly returned to Methos as the man groaned and struggled slowly to his feet. Angel observed every movement raptly, a dark hunger building in the pit of his stomach.

Angel jerked his eyes away from Methos in shock. He realized with a growing sense of alarm that he _wanted_ Methos. He wanted a total stranger like he had never wanted anything or anyone before . . . and this inexplicable _wanting_ appalled him. The blood congealing on the floor, drying on Methos’ body, actually seemed to call to the demon in him, creating an almost irrepressible impulse towards violence and satiation that Angel had to fight against with every fiber of his being. Methos' neck, his chest, his lips, his thighs—Angel wanted to taste every inch of him. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought as he felt himself harden with a keen desire. _Why this attraction?_ It had been decades since he had sought the company of another man—the deprivations inflicted on him during his sojourn in hell notwithstanding. As the torrent of alarming impulses assaulted his senses, Angel knew that it was time for him to go, to get out of the warehouse and away from temptation. But still he stayed, a snake immersed in a lethal fascination, lured by the irresistible music of the snake charmer.

Angel watched Methos shrug on his coat, secure a sword in the inner folds and pull it tightly around him. He picked up the katana, holding it loosely in his right hand. Joe seemed very chatty in the face of so much death. _Headless bodies must be commonplace to these people,_ Angel mused dryly. He returned his attention to the floor of the warehouse where the one called MacLeod, recently deceased, was regaining consciousness.

Joe was leaning over the man, trying to help him to his feet, but MacLeod shook him off and surged up like a gas geyser timed to nature’s fury. He spotted Methos standing pensively on the other side of the room—and he exploded.

"You monster!" MacLeod shouted at the top of his lungs. His cry reverberated off the ceiling, rolled down the walls and pooled on the floor like blood.

Angel saw Methos shrink into his clothes until he had to look twice to recognize him. Amazedly, Methos looked like a totally different person all of a sudden. Reticent, unsure, harmless . . . if Angel had not witnessed it, he would doubt Methos was the same man that had been standing there only a few moments ago.

Angel watched in shock as MacLeod flew across the room like the swift hand of justice. He grabbed Methos by the throat, screaming in his face. "You killed her!" He was choking Methos and screaming, "Why? She was defenseless! She was mortal! Oh my GOD! What did you do?"

Struggling for breath, Methos tried to dislodge MacLeod’s grip. Joe was screaming, pulling at MacLeod's arm and trying to get him to back off. Angel felt his own change coming—his demonic side about to break loose in Methos’ defense—and he gripped the banister to restrain himself.

MacLeod suddenly let Methos go. Really, he flung him away. Methos stumbled back, almost falling. He regained his precarious balance by virtue of the katana still clutched in his hand. Methos bent over, choking, trying to catch his breath.

But then MacLeod was right back at him. He grabbed Methos' arm, jerked him up and around. "I loved her!" he yelled. His voice cracked and tears ran down his face. He pushed Methos in his chest, knocking him backwards, and then pushed him again. Methos stumbled and raised his hand as if in supplication or to ward off a blow, seemingly trying to say something. MacLeod would have none of it.

"We’re through, you bastard! You son-of-a-bitch! I must have been crazy to think you changed. Mass murderers don’t change. You’re still the same murdering, raping, child killer you were with Kronos. The great Methos. The fucking _Horseman._ You knew I loved her! You knew!" MacLeod shouted in Methos' face, pushing him back. "Have you ever really loved anything in your whole pathetic LIFE?"

Methos looked up. Angel could see his eyes and they were dead, dead brown. "I loved you," he said bitterly, a self-mocking twist to his lips.

Angel saw it coming and leaned forward over the railing. MacLeod reared back and punched Methos, busting his lips open, sending him sprawling to the floor.

"I could never love you," he screamed, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You aren’t worth it." He backed away from Methos, disgust written across his face with a broad stroke.

"You have no honor," he continued more quietly. "You’re a coward. Everything about you is dead. You were jealous. You wanted me, and you killed her." MacLeod retreated to the other side of the room. He turned towards the wall, bracing himself against it with his hands. He lowered his head and took ragged, gasping inhalations of breath.

Methos lay crumpled on the floor for a moment. Then his head came up. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He struggled to get up, reaching for the katana that was laying on the floor to his right. He stood and looked at the sword in his hand. He looked at MacLeod standing across the room, visibly struggling for control. Then he threw the katana at MacLeod, spearing him to the wall.

"Don’t flatter yourself, MacLeod," Methos said quietly. He turned, spat out blood onto the floor and walked out.

And Angel followed him.


	3. Chapter 3

Every night and every morn  
Some to misery are born  
Every morn and every night  
Some are born to sweet delight.  
Some are born to sweet delight.  
Some are born to endless night

William Blake

+

Down by the old docks, in Seacouver, the moon presided over a pitch-black sky. No artificial light marred nature's perfect canvas. The full moon gazed owlishly down upon the earth, the ocean a dark mirror to further her vanity. The moon glowered prettily, smug in her ability to subdue the blackness, the unrelenting darkness of endless, starless night.

Down by the old docks, along the waterfront, a man walked. Better, perhaps, to say he propelled himself forward, that he walked quickly, as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels but running would serve only to further attract their attention. He walked along the deserted waterfront, hands in the pockets of his coat, face to the sky, silently railing against the vagaries of fate.

And the other, not quite a man and as dead as all the creatures of hell–but not soulless–followed him. Silently, surreptitiously, Angel followed Methos and watched. Watched as Methos stopped at the boardwalk railing, looked up at the sky and then down at the water. Angel watched sadness and vulnerability pour off him, despair lap against him like the waves against the shore. Such a blatant display of vulnerability from one so strongly desired called to Angel, to his hunter's nature. The strong smell of blood, to a vampire the sweetest perfume, gave rise to a rhapsody of desire from which Angel's tortured soul found no defense.

 _He was so tempted. He could not resist . . . the temptation._

Beyond choice, Angel felt the change come upon him.

Angel, the man with the soul, had no chance. The demon was in control, and after a torturous night watching and waiting for this opportunity, Angel wanted and needed only one thing–Methos–the person standing there, so needy, enticing his dark nature.

Methos, wrapped in his own thoughts, looking out over the water, reflecting on the past, on the present, saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he realized there was something hungry, something foreboding approaching him, it was already too late. The vampire attacked.

Perhaps attacked is too strong a word. Vampires need never attack–not in the way the wolf attacks the lamb or the lion the tethered goat. More accurate to say that a vampire can attack as the wolf or the lion but for a thing strongly desired, it instead mesmerizes and ensnares.

 _In exactly such a way did a vampire approach Methos from out of the shadows of the night._

Methos stood ensorcelled, mind screaming, body betraying. His every instinct told him to run, to fight, but he could only watch as Angel with his vampire's face closed the distance between them. Angel slid his hands around Methos' throat and brought his mouth to the pale, cool skin. He set his lips to cheek and temple, and the smooth bone of the jaw beneath the ear. Angel allowed his tongue to linger an instant for its curiosity.

What relief in the quenching of a flame, of a driving need fulfilled! Angel indulged himself in the exposed flesh of Methos' face, his neck. He consumed the nectar of the man's tender lips and gently sucked at his tongue. Angel, in a haze of desire, devoured the flesh of a mouth that was still bruised and bleeding. He licked at those areas recently spotted with blood and found that such a small portion was simply not enough.

Methos responded in the way of those bemused–the bewitched ones who exist for a time on a purely physical level, unconsciously responding to every guilty sensation–with ardor and enflamed need. The universe exploded around him and reformed . . . along more perfect lines.

Still, it wasn't enough. Angel wanted more, needed more. More flesh, closer contact. Frantically, he shrugged himself out of his coat, pulled his sweater over his head. Bare-chested, he grabbed the front of Methos' coat and ripped it open, yanking the man out of it and against him. The coat fell to the ground with a loud protest on impact from the sword concealed in its folds. Methos, naked except for his boots, reached out surely, his eyes half closed, and bridged the small distance between them with a touch of his hand. Angel felt a burning begin at the base of his spine at the contact, as every other need, past or present, every other desire, paled in comparison to his need to possess the man touching him.

Angel wanted to worship Methos, to glorify his body by the light of the moon, to the sounds of the sea. They kissed and explored the taste and feel of each other's bodies until both were begging by whimper and moan for release. Then Angel knelt, and with a groan of desire, engulfed Methos' cock in his mouth. Angel suckled there, pulling every last drop of creamy elixir from its weeping tip.

Then Angel stood and wrapped himself around his prize. Methos moaned sweetly and settled even more firmly into his arms. Angel felt as if he had been born again and that this man had been born with him. They belonged together. It was as if they had never been separate.

Kissing and licking and nuzzling his neck, Angel shuddered in anticipation. He positioned himself behind Methos and dropped his pants, allowing his cock to coast over the smooth mounds of Methos' backside. He kissed his shoulder blades and made his way slowly downwards until his hands reached those smooth mounds and parted them. He ran his hands over the crevice, bent, and with fingers and tongue prepared Methos for penetration.

Angel, though consumed with _tenderness,_ could not help but be true to his nature. Though he struggled for some semblance of control, he stood, and with one strong stoke, slammed into Methos, sinking his fangs into his neck and piercing the tender flesh.

The blood. The sweet, tangy taste of blood pulled at Angel's core, lifted him up in a spiraling vortex and cast him down to the depths of Hell. It was . . . _What was happening to him?_ Never had he tasted anything like this. Such blood–it seared his soul, burnt his insides to ashes. He was consumed by fire. Turned into flame.

Angel felt the strong tide of Methos' consciousness battering against his own. He saw memories–Methos' memories, he realized, flittering through his mind like a slide show. Angel saw a life stretched back uncounted years and forward into eternity. He saw himself in those memories as a sickly human child in Galway in his father's house. _Methos?_ He lost himself in the quick undertow and became scared. He tried to find his way back to his own thoughts, his own remembrances and succeeded–but barely. Methos' mind was like the ocean and he, the dissipating sand.

And MacLeod was there. His essence invading every thought, wrapped around Methos' senses, placing an indelible imprint on his soul like a gossamer thread, a bond connecting the two Immortals across time and distance. Angel felt jealousy at the intrusion, and tried to supplant that imprint with his own, but it was tenacious and resisted him despite everything. So Angel made like the water over the pebbled bank and flowed over and through, creating new surfaces and filling up all the empty spaces. He soothed the pain and replaced it. Replaced pain with intimations of joy.

And the blood, the sweetest blood, overshadowed _everything._ Angel knew he would not stop, could not stop, until he had tasted every last drop.

How to describe the succulence of such a thing? To what compare? Angel could only speculate as to what sensation would be a match for a mortal–the richest chocolate, the finest wine, the most decadent dessert–these things perhaps, perhaps not. Having been a vampire for so long, Angel could only guess.

Methos shuddered. The heart in his chest skipped a beat, then two. Angel felt his own body spasm, racked by climax as Methos spiraled down into death, drained of every last drop of the essential fluid the body requires to survive.

And it was agony. Ecstasy. A sweet intoxication. The headlong fall into an abyss. The endless resonant spasms came and went, came and went, like the throbbing of strings.

Methos' knees slowly buckled. His head lolled to the side. Angel careful withdrew his fangs, his cock, and lowered him gently to the ground.

+

Carefully, Angel wrapped Methos in his coat. Effortlessly, he picked him up and started walking quickly towards the car that he knew–through Methos' memories–was parked not too far away. Angel looked down at the dead man in his arms in despair and wondered how long it would take him to revive. He wished he could take him home, back to the apartment he knew was located across town but, limited as he was by the rules of being a vampire, he knew he would not be able to get him inside until Methos woke up and invited him in. _And how likely was that?_

Angel felt around the pockets of Methos' coat and located the car keys. He settled him behind the driver's seat and put the key into the ignition. Angel felt a keen distress at the thought of leaving him there, unprotected, out of his reach. His hand touched Methos' pale face and smoothed down his hair, lingering, unwilling to break this last contact. Angel looked up, across the street, focused on nothing, but still his hand remained against that soft cheek.

Finally, Angel turned away in despair. Despair for what could have been in another life had he possessed some better, truer nature. Despair for having forced this encounter, knowing in his heart that what had once been taken by force would likely never be given freely, and that past acts forever remain, overshadowing the present. Angel walked away from the car and knew despair. Despair for what he had just done to the man who could have been the other half of his soul.


	4. Chapter 4

One fatal remembrance–one sorrow that throws  
Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes–  
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,  
For which joy hath no balm–and affliction no sting.

 _Irish Melodies,_ Thomas Moore

+

 _Sunday Morning - 1:00 a.m. - Los Angeles_

Cordelia let herself into the office, stumbling into the plant by the door in the dark. _Geez,_ she thought to herself, _next time Wesley makes ME come over here in the middle of the night because HE forgot to turn on the alarm I'm going to drag him shopping with me. That'll teach him._ She artfully ignored the fact that the only reason Wesley was supposed to turn the alarm on was because she was out getting her nails done. Then she had decided to go shopping . . . there was this one day sale. She never actually told Wesley that she wasn't coming back to the office. It was all so spur of the moment. _Whatever,_ she thought. _If Wesley would stop being such a stick in the mud, he would've realized that I would need to pick up a couple of things. After all, it's not every day that your boss goes out of town and leaves you with nothing to do but mind the office._ She sighed. _Well, better to be safe.... Angel would stake us if anything happened to this place._

Cordelia started to walk toward the alarm panel and almost jumped out of her skin.

"Angel! What are you doing here? You almost scared me to death. I know you live here but you'd think you could show a little consideration. Not all of us are dead, you know. Turn on a light or something...." She trailed off.

Angel looked terrible. He looked distraught. Beyond distraught, and the first thing Cordelia thought was, _Oh, no! Buffy's here...._

"Where is she?" Cordelia looked around expecting to see the Slayer come flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

"Where's who?" Angel said so quietly, Cordelia had to strain her ears just to hear him.

 _I better get control of this situation fast, she thought to herself with exasperation. Buffy just can't keep popping up and driving Angel all crazy. I will NOT put up with another visit from Evil Angelus. I just had my nails done!_ Cordelia thought fast.

"Uh . . . Buffy. She's here, isn't she?"

"Buffy?" he asked, looking up in confusion. "Why would Buffy be here? I don't know where she is right now." He ducked his head.

"Well, if it's not Buffy then what's got your fangs all in a twist? You look like your dog just died–and you don't have a dog. What are you doing back anyway? You were supposed to be in Seacouver until Friday. I hope you don't expect me to work the next few days. I have auditions. Very important auditions, and I won't have some stupid demon or vampire or . . . or . . . or anything else you're thinking of investigating mess everything up!" She said in a rush.

Angel closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. Cordelia had never seen him act like this. "Listen, Cordelia," he said slowly, "I appreciate your concern and everything but I just can't do this right now. Can you just let yourself out? Take the next few days off. Call Wesley and tell him the same. I'll pay you guys for it. Don't worry."

 _He's going to pay us for not working! Angel never offers to pay for anything! They probably inscribed the word CHEAP-O on his tombstone the first time he died. Damn. This is more serious than I thought...._

Cordelia looked at him more closely trying to find some clue as to what was eating him. _Eating HIM. Now that's funny!_ Cordelia stifled a giggle. _No time for funny thoughts._ Angel obviously needed her.

She noticed that he had something in his hand. It was glittering slightly in the moonlight. Angel was looking at it intently, studying it. He rotated it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Is that the Gem of Amarra? I thought you hid it down in the cave. What are you doing with it?"

"Cordelia," Angel said slowly, "I need to tell you something. It may change the way you feel about me. You might not want to work here anymore–with me. God, I can't even stand me." He paused. "Cordy, I attacked a man tonight. I couldn't just stop myself. I lost control. I was totally out of control...." Angel trailed off.

Cordelia waved a manicured hand. "Oh, THAT. Yeah, I know. Thought you gave up eating people for Lent, big guy."

Angel's head snapped up. "What do you mean 'you know'?"

"Actually, you know those totally obnoxious visions I get? Well, I saw the whole thing earlier via technovision, or at least the highlights. The Powers That Be left you some instructions, but I didn't think now was the best time to get into all the little details–"

"You saw it?" Angel interrupted. "You saw what happened?" He sounded panicked.

"Whoa, Prince of Darkness. You don't have to worry about me. You can't help it that you're all vampy. Who am I to say what you have for dinner? I know you don't go around attacking people and it's not as if that guy is going to stay dead or anything. So it's no harm, no foul in my book."

"Cordelia," Angel jumped up and grabbed her arms with no small amount of force, "just tell me what they said. Is Methos going to be alright–"

Cordelia cut him off, shaking herself out of his grasp. "Re-lax! I don't think Methos is the one you need to worry about."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you'd better worry about yourself. It seems that out of all the tasty morsels in the world, you picked the catnip special."

"Cordelia, if you don't start making some sense I am going to bite you," Angel growled.

"Okay, okay. It seems that this guy of yours is some kind of Immortal that can't be killed unless you cut off his head, and I thought vampires were bad. Yuck! There's a bunch of them running around all over the place but they don't really bother regular people. They mostly fight between themselves in some sort of special contest called 'The Game'. If you ask me, it's really kind of stupid. I mean, like, let's all live and let live, you know? Stop with the head thing already. Anyway, their blood has this really bad effect on vampires. It's like a drug–an aphrodisiac if what I saw tonight was any indication." She grinned sheepishly. "Anyway, it's highly addictive and there's nothing you can do about it. One taste and WHAM you're hooked. I got the impression that it'll cause real drama with your system. It forms an actual physiological bond between you and your dinner. And I think the bond gets stronger the more of the person's blood you drink. You'll be constantly craving it, you know, kinda like shopping...." she trailed off. Angel was staring off into space.

"Earth to Angel." She snapped her fingers. "Are you listening to me? Geez, stake me the next time I offer to help."

"I'm sorry Cordelia," Angel said quietly, focusing on her. "Did they say anything else?"

"Well, I didn't get to the really bad part yet. Do you want to hear the really bad part? Oh, okay, I guess you would. As I said, there's nothing you can do about this bond UNLESS you get staked–which would be rather drastic in my opinion–or this Immortal guy gets his head cut off. The Powers think that cutting his head off is the best course of action. You should do it as soon as possible. Apparently, they don't want to part with their favorite warrior against the minions of hell and all that–"

"What?" Angel yelled shaking Cordelia and startling her.

"Hey! For crying out loud! Don't stake the messenger!"

"What are you talking about?" Angel asked intently. "Kill him? I'm not going to kill him. I don't go around killing people! I'm a demon hunter. I kill demons, vampires and minions from hell. I'm not an assassin. I don't want to hurt him–"

"Well, yeah, of course you kill demons but apparently this guy is sort of a demon–and he's sure not human. He's been around a really long time and from what I was shown, he's caused more death and destruction than 10 demons combined. Which really isn't the issue. The Powers said he has to go. Why would they want him dead if he wasn't really a bad guy?"

"I don't know, Cordelia. I don't know. But I intend to find out."

"Well count me out. I can't go to Seacouver. I have auditions and everything. Wesley and I will hold down the fort here. After all, we have to at least act like we're running a normal business."

"I'm going to Seacouver?" Angel repeated in surprise.

"Well, duh? Of course you're going to Seacouver. Isn't that why you're gripping the Gem of Amarra like you can squeeze blood out of it? You would have to be seriously under the influence after your big 'No vampire should see the light of day' speech to even go dig that thing up. Listen, go there, confirm that this guy is a pseudo demon, cut his head off and get back here before the end of the month. I'll need you to sign the pay checks...."

"Cordelia," Angel said softly, "it's not that simple. I . . . I feel him. I can feel his heart beating even from here. I've met him before–when I was a child in Ireland. He was a friend of my family. I remember him. He knew me when I was human. I don't think I can kill him regardless of what happens to me."

"Well, Angel, if you can't kill him at least make sure you don't do anything else groiny. If we're going to get another visit from Angelus, please, call first. I want to make sure I'm out of town."

Cordelia tilted her head up and kissed Angel on the cheek. Angel was surprised for a second. It wasn't like Cordelia to get all mushy. He wrapped his arms around her and gave a little squeeze.

"Thanks, Cordy."

"Well, what are friends for?" she said, blushing a little.

"And Angel, next time you decide to come back early and get all skulky on me, don't. You scared the bejeebers out of me!"

 _finis_


End file.
